


Ancient History

by OpalFruits



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adult!Frisk, Frisky Frisk, Guilt, Irresponsible Alcohol Use, Non-Explicit, Other, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, guilty sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 14:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11292435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalFruits/pseuds/OpalFruits
Summary: Sans really needs this thing between him and Frisk to stop now.Frisk has their own opinions.





	Ancient History

There is, Sans notes, something almost detached in the way his treacherous hands tug Frisk's shirt over their head. Trembling and eager, they grab at every inch of newly revealed flesh, indelicately squeezing and pinching even as part of him looks on in abject horror. He marvels at the softness of them, the way their skin pimples under his touch, delights in the way their breath catches in their throat when they whimper his name, and even then...

Even then he knows it's wrong.

 _It's wrong._ For _so many reasons,_ it's wrong, and Sans knows that but...

But by _God_ it feels so _right_.

“...we have to... s-stop...” he murmurs, pressing his teeth to their soft neck. And he means it, he really does, but 'saying' and 'doing' are hardly the same thing and he can't seem to make himself retreat.

He grabs their wandering hand – half-way to his pelvis already – by the wrist and pulls it back up to his rib cage. It's a token effort, no more; a half-hearted attempt at temperance, made only so he can tell himself later that he _tried_. Sans knows as well as Frisk does that neither of them are going to stop.

Frisk, as ever, appears to care nothing for his misgivings. They wrench themselves free, and a second later Sans feels their fingers fumble at his waistband. Almost without meaning to, his hips thrust forward in anticipation, a breathless moan – feverish, _desperate –_ escaping his clenched teeth despite his best efforts at holding it back. He blushes, embarrassed and annoyed, but above all _aroused_.

He tries again, pulling their hands away, but whatever self-righteousness he possessed is shattered when his tongue forms to lave a trail down their collarbone.

“this ain't... r-right, pal.”

Again, Frisk breaks free. His shorts are tented against an erection that borders on painful, and this time he lets them do as they please. It's inevitable, all so inevitable, and in that moment he's not sure if the self-loathing he feels is for the act itself or his inability to stop it any more.

Frisk pauses, a knowing slant to their smile. “Do you _really_ want to stop?” they ask coyly, their slender fingers finding him beneath the flimsy fabric of his shorts and daring to _squeeze_.

Sans whines, phalanges fisting in the bedsheets beneath him.

He really, _really_ doesn't.

But it's still wrong, and he tries to tell himself – as Frisk deftly removes his cock from it's confines – that this will be the last time.

The very last.

For real this time.

They have to stop this, before someone gets hurt.

* * *

 

Afterwards, Sans lies in bed thinking.

He thinks about a lot of things. He thinks about Frisk, with their clever hands and warm, wet mouth. He thinks about the softness of their skin, and the smoothness of their hair, and when he thinks about the smell of them – that sweet, fresh mixture of mango soap and shea butter – he can't help but press his face to the back of their neck to breathe it in.

He thinks about how lucky he is, that someone like Frisk could ever want someone like _him._

He thinks about how stupid he is, how _weak_ , for just sitting back and letting it happen.

But most of all, he thinks about Tori, his best friend – in so much as he _has_ one of those – and what _she_ would think about him fucking her kid.

There are a lot of reasons he _could_ have for breaking things off with Frisk. There's the fact that he's a monster and they're a human for one thing – interspecies relationships are still something of a scandal, especially among humans. Or there's the age gap between them, which is considerable in terms of _actual_ years, but less shocking when you take monster longevity and relative maturity into consideration. Scaled to human years, Sans is actually in the same age group – give or take a decade. There's even Frisk's career to consider – it's not exactly professional for an ambassador to be sleeping around with the staff, even if he _is_ just an informal occasional hours driver.

But...

Well, Sans doesn't really care about any of that stuff. And he knows Frisk doesn't either.

No, the real reason is much more complex. Much less easily ignored.

The real reason is that Frisk is... well, _Frisk._

Sans remembers meeting them in the Underground – and frankly, the less said about _that_ the better – back when they really were just a kid, fragile and afraid and smaller even than _he_ was. He remembers watching that kid grow up; walking them to school, going to their recitals, watching them for Tori when she had work coming out her ears. He remembers helping them with their homework, and giving them advice, and dropping them off when they left home for university.

He remembers them calling him 'Uncle'.

No matter which way you sliced it, he'd a hand in _raising_ Frisk.

So then, what did it say about him that he wanted to _bang_ the kid he'd brought up?

And if _he_ saw it for the sick, disgusting thing that it was, then surely the rest of their friends and family would too.

Sans can just imagine Asgore, his deep, sombre voice full of confusion and embarrassed reproach. Undyne would be furious _,_ naturally – she'd probably blame the whole thing on _him,_ even though he's at least eighty percent sure it was Frisk who actually started it _._ He doesn't know how Alphys will react, shy and soft-spoken as she is, but finds that that makes him more nervous than anything either His Highness or fish for brains could dish out.

Then there's Papyrus... His brother was so cool, he'd probably try to be supportive no matter _what_ he actually thought. But that attitude would set him apart from the others, might even turn them against him...

Sans couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't put Pap in that position.

Still, sometimes he likes to... to dream. To imagine what it would be like to wake up in Frisk's bed, in Frisk's _arms_ , every single day. How would it feel, he wonders, to love them openly, instead of hiding their affair in the dark hours? To be able to sit beside them at family dinners, instead of carefully making sure Pap always sat between them? To hold their hand, just because he wanted to, or make love to them without immediately feeling guilty?

Tomorrow is Sunday, and if the dream were real Sans would be able to wrap them in his arms and just fall asleep. They'd sleep in in the morning, and eat breakfast together at midday, and then they'd spend the whole afternoon fucking around (or just plain fucking), and that would be just fine.

But the fantasy is just that – a _fantasy_  – and instead he sighs, and rolls onto his side to begin the arduous process of locating his clothes.

Huh.

How did his hoodie end up _there_?

“Mmmn? Sans?”

Sans freezes, halfway through pulling up his shorts. He finishes quickly, knowing full well that if he's naked – in _any_ capacity – when Frisk turns around, he won't be leaving until they've had round four.

… yeah, it had been a long and especially energetic night.

“y-yeah?” he whispers, straightening. “what's the matter, kiddo?”

He cringes as the endearment rolls off his tongue through sheer force of habit. The age difference may not exactly be an issue, at least not to them, but that particular nickname reminds him too much of the days when they actually _were_ a kid. It makes him think of scraped knees and single-digit birthdays and bad report cards... And _that_ is beyond weird when they'd just spent the night having sex.

Frisk appears not to notice his slip up. Or not to care. They take a very different approach to these trysts than Sans does and would, he knows, be happy to sing their involvement with each other from the rooftops. Really, the affair is only a secret only because he wants it to be. But then, Frisk had always been headstrong – when they wanted something, they _wanted_ it, and consequences be damned.

It just so happened that, in this instance, what they wanted was _him_.

“Come back to bed,” they grumble. The look in their eyes, however, is resigned. They already know he won't, because he never does.

“i can't, bud,” Sans says anyway, confirming the conclusion they've already reached. They sit up a little and the covers fall away from their bare chest. Sans eyes are drawn to their nipples – hardened in the chill of the bedroom – and he swallows noisily. He can't stay, he _can't_ , but _stars,_ how he wants to. “p-pap'll be up soon...”

 _and i don't want him to know i was gone_ , goes the unspoken conclusion.

Frisk stares at him, their eyes dark and focused, looking for any small chink in his armour that they can use to convince him to stay. Finding none, they flop onto their stomach with a disappointed sigh and wave a hand at him dismissively.

“Okay. See you later then.”

Sans nods, though they can't see it from this angle, and almost shortcuts straight to his room when a familiar thought rears it's ugly head and gives him pause.

_we can't keep this up..._

The fact of the matter is, Sans is tired. The sex is great – better than great – and he guesses he does _love_ Frisk in his own twisted way, but...

He's so, _so_ tired.

He's tired of sneaking to their house in the dead of night, and then sneaking back out again before even the earliest of early birds have opened their eyes. He's tired of walking that fine, fine line between casual and cold whenever they're together in public. He's tired of being afraid all the time, of worrying that he's going to slip up and they're going to get found out.

He's just plain _tired._

“a-actually, kid...”

The sound of his own voice surprises him – he doesn't remember consciously making the decision to say anything. He flounders at first, unsure how to follow it up. He _could_ just take it back, tell them never mind and that he'll see them later, but now that he's started he knows he has to strike while the iron is hot. If he doesn't, he might never find the strength to break things off.

His mind flashes to Papyrus, and – in an uncharacteristic burst of selflessness and determination – he straightens his spine and turns back to the bed. Frisk is still slumped on their stomach.

“i uh... meant it. when i said we have to stop this.” He's almost proud – his voice only cracks once. “i think we... shouldn't see each other any more. y'know, just for a – a while...”

Frisk finally rolls over and gapes at him incredulously. “Are you... _breaking up_ with me?”

“ _huh_.” Sans is just as stunned as they are. “i... i guess i am.”

Frisk starts to cry.

It's the last thing he expects, having someone shed tears over _him_ , and for a moment all he can do is stare uncomprehendingly. Their expression is fierce, despite their obvious hurt, their jaw set and their eyes hard even as the tears keep coming. He sees their fingers curl into fists in his peripheral vision as they stare him down defiantly.

“ _Why_?”

Sans approaches the bed and sits delicately on the edge. He thinks about putting a hand on their shoulder in comfort, but apart from the fact that Frisk probably wouldn't appreciate it right now, he worries that any physical contact might weaken his already fragile resolve.

“you _know_ why, kid.”

“Because it's _wrong_?” they say bitterly, sarcastically.

“it _is_ wrong,” he says gently. “we're practically _family_ , pal. what would tori say? or asgore? or... well anyone?”

Stubborn as ever, Frisk snaps, “I don't care!”

“you should.” But he knows it's futile, trying to get them to see things rationally, so he decides to try a different tack. “look kid, you... you can do _better._ ”

It's the wrong thing to say.

“I don't _want_ better – I want _you_!” Frisk cries, indignant. “I don't care what you or anyone else says!” They grab his arm, their fingers firm and beseeching – he starts at the contact, and resists their attempt to turn him around. “I _love_ you, Sans,” they say with conviction. “How can that _possibly_ be wrong?”

In the silence following their confession – a confession he's heard a thousand times before, but that still somehow makes his soul sing with joy – Sans thinks that maybe he should have done this over text. Almost immediately he berates himself for the cowardly thought, ashamed that it crossed his mind for even a second.

He's a lowly piece of shit, no question, but even _he_ wouldn't stoop to that level.

The silence continues.

Sans fidgets, trying to think of something – _anything –_ to say. Nothing comes to mind; nothing that wouldn't make things harder, or sound horribly condescending. So nothing is precisely what he says.

Suddenly, without warning, Frisk releases his arm and moves to press themselves against his back. He can feel their warmth even through the thickness of his hoodie, and when their soft arms come around to encircle his shoulders, he feels a familiar urge settle deep in his pelvic cavity. He wants nothing more than to just give in. To turn around and kiss them completely stupid. In his mind, he sees himself throwing them back on the bed, shoving his tongue down their throat, taking them again and again and again, until they both pass out altogether...

He wants it so much he has to pinch his femur, hard, to keep his self-control in check.

“I love you,” they say again, pressing their soft lips to the side of his skull. “I want to be with you – _only_ _you_.” Their breath is soft against his bones, the smell of their skin sweet and enticing compared to his own sweaty musk. “Please come back to bed. _Please_ , Sans.”

Panic and arousal fight for dominance in his chest.

“i-i... i _can't._ ” Sans disengages, rougher than he intended, and hastily stands. He keeps his back to them, knowing that if he looks now, he's doomed. “i... i gotta go.”

And then he's in his own room, alone with only his guilt for company.

* * *

 

They don't talk or even see each other for _weeks_. This is mainly because Sans goes out of his way to avoid them like the pathetic coward he is. He ignores all their texts and calls (of which there are many), makes excuses not to go to Tori's for dinner, and reneges on anime night at Undyne and Alphys' for the first time in fifteen years. Frisk comes to the house a few times, but he's extra careful to make sure Papyrus answers the door, thereby giving himself plenty of time to shortcut away before they make it to his room.

It doesn't take long for their friends to notice the shift.

“SANS... ARE YOU... _AVOIDING_ FRISK?” Papyrus asks, after ushering Frisk to Sans' suspiciously empty room for the forth time that first week.

“'course not bro,” says Sans casually – he'd spent their brief visit on the roof waiting for them to leave, and had deposited himself inconspicuously on the couch when they were finally gone. “'s just bad luck, that's all.”

But as time passes it becomes clear, even to the easily-appeased Papyrus, that something _big_ has happened between them. Even before they started fucking regularly, Sans and Frisk had been close. It was – or had been – unusual for them to go more than a few days without seeing each other.

The change makes everyone uneasy.

Somewhere around week three, he's forced to add Undyne to the list of people he's hiding from when she barges in and demands an explanation.

“What did you _do,_ nerd?!”

Sans, who'd been lying on the couch having a rather nice daydream (one that featured a certain human, and had had him on the point of slipping off to his room to knock out a quick one), had felt his grin tighten imperceptibly. “nothin'.”

“I ain't buyin' _that_ , punk! Frisk's been cryin' into their pillow for _weeks_ now, and I just KNOW you've got somethin' to do with it.”

It hurt him to hear it. But he was still convinced he was doing the right thing.

“ok.”

“SPILL BONEHEAD!”

“you think i'm tellin' _fibulas_?”

She'd flipped the dining table then, and Papyrus – worried about his brother's low HP – had been forced to rush downstairs and make her leave.

Since then, all his friends had taken turns at sticking their oar in.

Asgore had come for tea one afternoon, and subtly reminded Sans that he was still his King and could – _technically –_ order him to tell him. They both knew he wouldn't. He was much too soft for that.

Alphys had sent him a stream of roundabout questions by text, most of which he'd rebuffed through a clever combination of puns and memes.

The worst, however, had been Tori. She'd caught up to him in Grillbz' one night (where, in an attempt to get Frisk out of his head for even five minutes, he'd been spending a ridiculous amount of time drinking) and had taken a much gentler approach.

“Sans... I hope you do not mind my asking, but have you and Frisk... fallen out?”

“... uh.”

He always found it hard to dismiss Tori with the same platitudes he used on the others. She could smell lies like a fart in a lift, but even if she hadn't been quite so perceptive, Sans couldn't bring himself to deliberately deceive her. There's something special about a pal made through the power of shitty jokes. He loved all his friends, but Toriel – Toriel he _respected._

Which was part of the reason he was in this position, ironically enough.

“They have been very... subdued, of late. And I can't help but notice that _you_ have not been your usual self either. Did something happen between you?”

Oh God, if that wasn't a loaded question...

“'s fine... we just, uh. had a disagreement 'bout somethin'.”

Tori hadn't seemed convinced. “I see. Well... as your friend and Frisk's mother, I _implore_ you - please speak with them. The two of you are so close... I cannot believe there is anything in this world that you could not overcome together.”

Little did she know...

But Tori _was_ his best friend, and Sans had tentatively agreed to talk to Frisk.

Someday.

Eventually.

When the attraction between them finally burnt out and this affair of theirs became ancient history.

* * *

 

He's a month and a half in before he finally caves.

He'd have lasted longer, he thinks, if he hadn't been hitting the sauce quite so hard. But then, he always did find his dumbest decisions at the bottom of a bottle.

“heeeyyyy, frrrrisk!” Sans coos into his phone. “howzit g- _goin_ '?”

He's in the alley behind Grillby's, having stumbled out there in a huff after the flaming bartender cut him off. It's late - or perhaps, given the particularly annoyed quality of Frisk's answering groan, it's early. The streets are dark and the air carries a chill that's soothing against his feverish bones. Skeletons don't get sick, but the inside of his mouth still tastes like the contents of a public toilet regardless.

He reeks of booze and bad decisions.

Frisk must smell it through the phone, because the first words out their mouth are, “Sans? Are you drunk?”

Suddenly, he feels like he's going to cry. It's been... _so long..._ since he heard their voice. “... i m-miss you...”

“Seriously?” They sound pissed. “You wanna do this _now_? It's-,” there's a muffled noise, the sound of them turning over in bed, “ _two_ in the morning. On a _Sunday_!”

“i... i know. but i m-miss you, kid.” Even Sans isn't sure what his point is. _He_ broke it off, not them.

“... you've got a funny way of showing it.” The hurt in their voice is unmistakable.

Sans closes his eye sockets – even drunk, he can't stand to hear them sound so wounded. The whole reason he cut those ties was to _stop_ them getting hurt – to protect them from the disapproval and judgement their relationship would become subject to if people knew. In his inebriated state, he abruptly understands something his sober self never could.

He's damned no matter what he does.

“i know,” he says. It's all he _can_ say.

“I told you I loved you, and you just...”

“i'm sorry.”

“Sorry – _sorry_ isn't good enough, Sans,” they sigh.

He knows that. But 'sorry' is all he's got.

“I'm just... I'm _tired,_ Sans. I'm tired of hiding and...” Another sigh crackles down the phone. “Look, I _want_ to be with you. I want that more than anything. And I'm willing to fight for it, if I have to. But _this_... Sneaking about, lying to our friends and family... going through _this_ song and dance every time you have a _completely unnecessary_  crisis of conscience... I'm done.”

Sans doesn't know what to say. He should be glad the kid's finally found it in them to move on – it's for the best, hasn't he always known that? But instead all he feels is emptiness. Just blank and numb, all the way to his soul.

“Can I just... I mean is it just _me_? Do you not feel the same way or something?” Frisk pauses. Sans can see them in his mind's eye, fiddling with the corner of their quilt and biting their lip. “Was I just... I dunno, a _distraction_? A quick lay and nothing else?”

“no!” In his desperation, he _shouts_ , his voice cracking off the surrounding brick like a gunshot. He can't – _won't –_ let them think that. “don't... don' th-think... 's not like...” Damn – his words aren't working properly. He's too drunk to get a whole sentence out, never mind infuse anything he says with the proper conviction. “i l-love... _love_ you.”

“Then why did you break up with me?”

“'cause 's _w-wrong!_ ” Why can't they _understand_ that?

“Great. _This_ again...”

“n-no... wait. hear me out, k-kay?”

And he tries – in his drunken stupor, Sans _tries_ to make them see. He does his best to explain all the reasons they _shouldn't_ be together, and how in the end it really comes down to one reason, that being simply that he doesn't want them to have to choose between _him_ and the rest of their friends and family.

“they wouldn't – wouldn't _get_ it... y'know?” he slurs, sitting on the cold pavement with the phone cradled to his skull. “all that other stuff... that don't matter t' _me_... but it'd matter t'... to _them_. a-and _they_ matter to me... an' to you too...”

He trails off, uncertain if he's making his point or if he's just spewing garbled nonsense.

“I think,” Frisk says carefully. “you're giving them less credit than they deserve.”

“... what?”

“What makes you think any of them would disapprove? Maybe they'd be happy for us...”

Sans could honestly say the idea had never occurred to him.

Because it was ridiculous.

True, Papyrus would probably be onboard regardless, because Sans was his brother and Frisk was his friend and he wanted them to be happy above all else. He could see Alphys actively encouraging them too – she was a hopeless romantic at heart, and the forbidden nature of their relationship would very likely appeal to her perverse tastes. That, frankly, was it's very own brand of concerning...

But the others...

Undyne, for one, had been pretty open about how weird she thought monsters dating humans was. She wasn't _completely_ disgusted like some people were, but she had still compared it to dating an alien. Or – in one of her less eloquent moments – dating an animal; that particular comparison had gotten her the silent treatment from Frisk for several days. Even if she eventually got past that though – and she probably would, for Frisk's sake – Undyne was very... protective of her BFF.

Sans doubts she'd ever approve of Frisk dating a lazy slob like him.

Then there was King Fluffybuns. Frisk was _his_ kid as much as Tori's, and Sans... Sans used to _work_ for the man. That could only ever be awkward, to have your employee of some fifty years bedding your less than a quarter-century year old kid. And that was without the added hassle of the publicity factor to consider, what with Frisk technically being his heir and their job at the embassy and everything – like it or not, appearances were important when you were royalty.

As for Tori... God, he didn't even want to _think_ about it. How does any parent even _begin_ to cope with the fact that their closest friend has been sleeping with their only child?

And that was just to start – Frisk was friends with a lot of people...

No, it's clear to Sans that coming clean can only end in disaster.

When he tells them so, they sigh softly but – sensing the futility in the conversation – immediately change the subject. They're probably not done with it – Sans knows Frisk well enough to know that their determination isn't so easily denied. But for now, they elect to channel their energies into offering his drunken ass what comfort they can.

He ends up spending the night at their house.

* * *

Against his better judgement, Sans lingers the next morning. He wakes early, roused by the squishy warmth against his side and the pounding between his eye sockets. Frisk doesn't stir, not even when he shifts into a more comfortable position, setting their cast-iron bed frame creaking. He spends a precious hour watching them sleep, and even allows himself the luxury of pretending this could be a regular occurrence.

Frisk's eyes blink open around the eight o'clock mark. They seem surprised to see him.

“You're still here.”

“yeah...”

They grin, wide and pleased, and bury their head against his naked rib cage. “Good.”

“kid...” Sans looks away, full of guilt and self-loathing. Only _Frisk_ could still smile like that when he essentially just booty-called them. “i'm sorry.”

God... What was he _thinking_? Now they're right back to square one, and it's all his fault. Worse, he's not convinced he has it in him to break up with them a second time.

Why do all his attempts at selflessness keep backfiring?

“ _I'm_ not.” They run a seductive finger down his right ulna. “I'm not sorry at all.”

Sans shivers. His hand reflexively tightens over the flesh of their bare hip beneath the covers. Truth be told, he's not nearly as sorry as he probably should be either.

“i m-mean about... bein' drunk and – and stuff. i don't want you to think i'm just-,”

“Using me?” they finish, perceptive as always.

Their tongue darts out and trails tantalisingly over the edge of his sternum, tracing the junctions between his ribs daringly. Their hand, the one that isn't trapped awkwardly beneath their own body, plays almost idly with his right ilium, delicately stroking each bump and groove and occasionally scratching him with their nails.

He's panting by the time they stop, languidly propping themselves up on their elbow to look him right in the eye. The glow of his blush paints their pale skin an ethereal blue – it's a good colour on them.

“What if I _want_ to be used?” they mumble.

If Sans were a stronger skeleton, he wouldn't fall for such an obvious ploy. He'd control his sinful urges and demand they take the situation seriously.

But he's weak, and as such he _does_ end up using them.

Twice in bed, and once more in the shower.

* * *

“s-so... what now?”

Frisk hums contentedly. They're standing at the stove making bacon and eggs for them both. The slight bounce in their step and the way they occasionally break into song tells Sans they're much happier about this than is strictly necessary. He suspects it has a lot more to do with the double portion than the food itself.

“What do you mean, 'what now'?” they ask, sliding the eggs on to the plates and joining him at the breakfast bar. They wink as they set his plate in front of him. “You ready to go again already?”

Despite himself, Sans can't help but chuckle. “kid, if we go any more today i'm gonna have to start countin' it as _exercise_.”

Frisk laughs coquettishly. “Couldn't have _that_.”

“heh.”

They eat in companionable silence. It's not until Frisk's at the sink doing the dishes that Sans brings it up again.

“'m serious, bud.” He slides up behind them, wrapping his thin arms around their waist and resting his chin on their shoulder. “what are we gonna do?”

“Dunno,” Frisk replies casually – almost too casually. “You gonna split on me again?”

He _should_.

He doesn't think he can.

“nah. didn't work out too great for me last time.”

“Me neither,” Frisk says pointedly. He snuggles closer guiltily.

“i just... i don't want you to wind up regrettin' it,” he mumbles into their shoulder. “choosin' _me_ , i mean.”

“I won't.”

Frisk turns in his arms and loops their own around his neck. They kiss him softly between his eye sockets.

“y' might, when all your pals start freakin' out about... well, us.”

“They're not gonna 'freak out',” Frisk scoffs. “If they do, they obviously weren't very good friends to begin with, were they? You know for such a lazybones, you sure worry a lot.”

“heh. more like _you_ don't worry enough.”

“So are we... official then?” Frisk asks, barely containing their excitement. “Can we start telling people?”

The idea still makes Sans vaguely nauseous – he can't help feeling like this is all going to blow up in their faces. But Frisk said they're done keeping secrets, and _he's_ done trying to keep his distance. That doesn't really leave him with a whole lot of options.

“i... i guess? if that's what you want.”

Frisk positively _beams_. “Sans, that's-,”

Whatever they were about to say is cut off by the sound of their phone ringing. It vibrates violently on the breakfast bar, bleating out the theme tune to one of Mettaton's many TV shows. A particularly bad one, by the sounds of it. Sans raises an eyebrow and Frisk shrugs – they show their loyalty in the strangest of ways sometimes.

“Hold that thought,” they tell him, slipping his embrace and plucking the phone from the counter. “Hello?”

Sans settles back against the sink, crossing his arms and watching while Frisk listens to the response of whoever is on the other end of the call.

“Oh! Mama, hi! How're... Sans? Uh...” Their eyes snap to him. “Why?”

Sans had frozen rigid at the mention of his name. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear himself screaming, instinctive panic making his jaw lock in a wide, manic grin. He can feel multiple beads of sweat erupting across his skull.

“Oh, I see. Papyrus did, huh?”

Frisk stares at him, wide-eyed and expectant. They gesture at him with their free hand, a hurried, quizzical movement, and Sans knows that if he asks them to, they'll lie for him one more time – just this once, to give him some time to prepare.

Sans... doesn't know what to do. He hadn't expected _Tori –_ of all people – to be the first to find out. He certainly hadn't expected her to find out like _this_. If this were a game, and each of their friends were the levels, Tori would be the maximum difficulty. Sans had hoped to start out with someone a little easier.

But...

Well, she was going to find out eventually anyway. And Tori was smart – it wouldn't take her long, once everything was out in the open, to figure out that Frisk had been lying to her. That... would probably be worse in the long run, he thinks.

Dropping his head into one hand, he uses the other to affect a 'go on' motion at them. Peering at them from between his phalanges, he sees them smile encouragingly and nod.

“Well, uh, actually Mama... Sans is here. He stayed the night.”

There's a pause. It's a fraction of a second too long, and in that short space of time Sans contemplates several ways to end his life before Toriel gets the chance to do it for him.

Then Frisk hands him the phone.

Sans backs away from them as though they were trying to hand him a grenade. “no way, kid!” he hisses.

Frisk holds it out more insistently. “She wants to talk to you.”

“no, what she _wants_ is to string me up.”

“You don't know that.” Frisk rolls their eyes. “Don't be so melodramatic.”

They argue for several seconds before Sans gives in and takes the phone, grimacing. This is going to be unpleasant. Is it just him, or can he already hear flames crackling over the line?

“h-hey tori. uh, listen-,”

“Good morning, Sans. I trust you slept well?”

_trap. this is definitely a trap._

“uh yeah... i guess.” He briefly considers telling her he slept on the couch. Hell, maybe he would if he thought for one second she would believe him. “not... not bad, at all.”

“Good. I have two things I wish to say to you this morning, Sans.”

 _oh shit._ The sweat on his skull runs into one of his eye sockets. His voice is high and thin by the time he works up the courage to use it. “y-yeah?”

“Yes. First – when you plan to spend the night away from home, do have the courtesy to inform your brother of your intentions. He was very worried this morning, and apparently you are not answering his calls.”

That would be because his phone is dead. Sans is kind of surprised he isn't too, yet.

“sure thing...” he croaks. “and the, uh... other thing?”

She chuckles, a light and airy sound. “Second – do not let your _Frisk_ y business make the two of you late for dinner today. I'm making pie.”

With that she hangs up.

Sans stares at the handset disbelievingly for several long minutes.

When he finally looks up, Frisk's expression is smug.

“Told you so.”

“h-heh... i guess you did.”

* * *

 

They end up being twenty minutes late to dinner.

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little oneshot because why the hell not?
> 
> Also, got me a tumblr. Don't do much with it, but feel free to have a peek. https://fruitsofopal.tumblr.com/


End file.
